Beyond The Horizon (2 page)

“These atrocities must stop, Blade. People are dying every day, not only whites but Indians. But as long as guns are being smuggled to the Indians these unprovoked attacks will continue.”

“Excuse me, Mr. President, but haven’t the Indians been complaining for years about being cheated, of Washington not living up to the treaty agreement? What about dishonest agents who deliberately lie and cheat Indians out of provisions due them?” Blade challenged boldly.

“Blade, we don’t know the Indians are being cheated,” Major Vance injected in an effort to disarm Blade’s criticism.

“I won’t deny there are dishonest men out there, but that is not the point. Guns are what I’m talking about,” President Johnson continued. “Illegal weapons delivered into the hands of hot-blooded young men of the tribes who use them to raid and kill indiscriminately.”

“I don’t see how I can be of help,” Blade said carefully.

“We think someone at Fort Laramie in Wyoming is arranging for the guns to be brought west by wagon train. Whoever this man is takes delivery, then sells the weapons to renegade Indians.”

“You suspect an army man?” Blade asked.

“Not necessarily. It could be one of the townspeople, but all the information we have thus far indicates the involvement of someone directly connected to the army.”

“And you want me to find out who that man is,” Blade surmised. “I’ve already turned in my resignation.”

“All the better,” President Johnson replied. “We’ve already lost one man, a special agent sent to Fort Laramie to investigate, who was never heard from again. What I’d like you to do is carry out an investigation as an Indian, someone least likely to be suspect. Go back to your tribe. You’re bound to learn who is dealing in guns from the young braves of the tribe. They are the ones to watch. But it is vitally important, Blade, that no one, absolutely no one, knows you are a special agent or connected to the army or office of the president. I’ve enough trouble on the homefront without answering to charges of concentrating on far-flung frontiers.”

“I understand, sir. If I decide to accept, is there some special way I’m to travel to Fort Laramie?”

“Major Vance has made arrangements for you to travel with a wagon train as guide. You’ll take them as far as Fort Laramie, where they will pick up a new guide and continue on to Oregon.”

“The train captain is a man named Clive Bailey,” said Major Vance. “He runs the trading post at Fort Laramie. We think he is one of those transporting illegal guns across the plains. Your first priority will be to learn if our suspicions are correct. This Bailey could very well be the man we’re after.

“I know you are familiar with the territory,” Vance continued, “and it would be essential for you to rely on your Indian instincts. The train captain will be informed you are a half-breed.”

“I see,” Blade acknowledged stiffly. “A half-breed who is considered barely human; a half-savage whom people fear and despise.” He couldn’t keep the note of bitterness from creeping into his voice.

“It is the only way, Blade,” President Johnson said by way of apology. “Life as you know it will cease to exist if you accept this assignment. Your only contact will be Major Vance, who is being sent to Fort Laramie as second in command under Colonel Greer. Do you have an Indian name?”

“Among the Sioux I am known as Swift Blade.”

“When you reach Independence you will become Swift Blade. All your Indian upbringing must be utilized if you are to survive. Forget the ten years you’ve lived as a white man and rely solely on your Indian instincts. Will you accept the assignment? A reward goes along with the capture of our man.”

Blade looked at Wade Vance for guidance. They had been friends for a long time and he respected the major’s views. Besides, Blade wasn’t a rich man and the reward would come in handy. “You would be doing the country a great service, Blade,” Major Vance reminded him.

It was enough.

“I’ll do it, sir,” Blade replied, answering the president’s question.

Chapter One

Atlanta, Georgia
—
May
1867

G
olden daffodils bloomed on the hillside and the
gentle breeze was fragrant with the promise of spring, yet Shannon saw nothing but the fresh mound of earth at her feet where Great Aunt Eugenia had just been laid to rest. Who would have thought a little over a month ago when the rest of the Branigan family left for Idaho that Eugenia would die so abruptly of heart seizure? Though she had been too frail to survive the long overland trip by wagon train to Idaho, Eugenia wasn’t in ill health when one considered her great age of eighty-nine.

Not once did Shannon consider herself exceptional for selflessly volunteering to remain behind in Atlanta with Aunt Eugenia instead of joining her family on their trek West. To Shannon it was an act of love, for she cared deeply about the old woman. Sense of family was strong in the Branigan clan and Shannon had inherited more than her share. She had planned sometime in the future to join the rest of the Branigans in Idaho, traveling by train, for it was only a matter of a year or two before the railroad would stretch from coast to coast.

But Eugenia’s sudden death had changed everything. There was still a possibility, albeit a slim one, that Tuck, Mama, and the little ones hadn’t left Independence yet. It was that small chance that had provoked Shannon into selling Aunt Eugenia’s house to a despised Yankee and using some of the money to purchase a train ticket to Independence, hoping to catch up to her family before they started West with the wagon train.

“Come on, Shannon. Standing here staring at Aunt Eugenia’s grave won’t bring her back.”

Venturing a watery smile, Shannon turned and followed her brother Devlin from the cemetery. He was right; Aunt Eugenia wouldn’t want her to grieve. Thank God Dev had heard about Eugenia’s death. He’d arrived just in time to lend Shannon the support she needed. Dev had a penchant for turning up at the right moment. Hard telling where he’d be a week from now, but at least he was here to help her with the funeral and her travel arrangements.

“Are you certain you won’t come with me, Dev?” Shannon asked hopefully. “There is still a good chance we can catch up with the family.”

“Positive, Shannon. I’ve already had it out with Tuck, so don’t you try to persuade me when my mind is made up. I wish you all well, but I’m taking charge of my own future.”

The funeral had been a large one, for Aunt Eugenia had been well loved in life. But sadly, nothing Shannon could do or say stopped Devlin from leaving shortly afterwards. He hugged her fiercely, wished her well, and departed. Her aunt’s passing and Devlin’s leaving created a void in Shannon’s heart that nearly defeated her. But Shannon knew Eugenia’s philosophy wouldn’t have allowed for maudlin sentiments. She recalled their last conversation.

“Once I’m gone, get on with your life, Shannon,” the astute old woman had advised. “Don’t let the horrors of war and the loss of loved ones stunt you emotionally. You’re an exceptionally strong young woman with beauty and brains to match. Love will come one day when you least expect it, and I suspect you will embrace it with the same courage and selflessness that made you volunteer to remain in Atlanta with me.”

Those were the last words Eugenia had spoken, for that night she had suffered a seizure and died. They were words Shannon would have cause to remember time and again.

Before Shannon left Atlanta she posted a letter to her mother in care of her cousin, Keegan Branigan, who lived in Idaho City and had urged the family to settle in the West. If she wasn’t able to catch up to her family, the letter would reach them shortly after their arrival.

Dear Mama,

I’m on my way to Idaho! I’m sorry to report Aunt Eugenia died peacefully a short time after you left Atlanta. I’m leaving for Independence tomorrow in hopes of catching up to you, but if I don’t, this letter will reach you soon after you arrive in Boise,

Devlin came to the funeral, and I tried to persuade him to come west with me, but as usual he was being obstinate. The Yankees are making Atlanta a living hell, and I’m glad to get out of here. I can’t imagine why Dev refuses to leave. One day he’ll show up when we least expect it.

I’ll see you soon, Mama. Give my love to Tuck and the little ones.

Your devoted daughter,
Shannon

Independence, Missouri
—
June
1867

“I’m sorry, lady, the Branigan party left Independence over two months ago. By now they are well on their way along the Oregon Trail.”

Weariness etched deep lines across Shannon’s brow and profound disappointment dulled the sparkle of her deep blue eyes. With a toss of her rich chestnut curls she quelled the urge to vent her famous temper at God for allowing this to happen. Still, it wasn’t the end of the world, Shannon thought, squaring her narrow shoulders.

“Two months!” she mused aloud. “I haven’t enough money left for the stage coach. But if I join another wagon train I’ll be able to meet my family in Idaho.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, lady,” the man said, “but it’s gettin’ a mite late in the year. Most wagon trains have already begun their journey.”

A look of absolute horror crossed Shannon’s lovely features. “You mean I’m stranded in Independence until next spring?”

The man she spoke with owned the outfitting store which, sooner or later, most emigrants found cause to visit while in Independence. He seemed to know everything and everyone.

“Well now,” he said, scratching his whiskered chin, “might be yer in luck. There’s a wagon train formin’ outside town fer latecomers.”

“Who do I talk to?” Shannon asked, heartened. Perhaps God hadn’t abandoned her after all.

“Have yer man talk to Clive Bailey, he’s the train captain and organizer. He owns the trading post at Fort Laramie and is carrying supplies to sell in his store. If you can’t find him, ask for a man who calls himself Blade.”

My man? Shannon thought dully. But before she could give voice to the question teasing the tip of her tongue a deep male voice asked, “Did someone mention my name?”

He stood like a tall shadow in the doorway of the store with the sun at his back blotting out his features. The breadth of his shoulders touched the jamb on either side and the magnificent expanse of torso and slim hips was supported by legs as sturdy as oaks. Shannon shuddered, feeling oddly threatened as he moved toward her with the rolling gait of a stalking panther, his pelvis pivoting in a manner so blatantly masculine that Shannon felt a dull red crawl up her neck.

“This young woman was ask’n ‘bout joining yer wagon train, Blade,” the storekeeper explained as he turned away to help another customer. “I’ll leave you two to make arrangements.”

Blade turned the full magnetic power of his penetrating black eyes on the young woman—he judged her to be under twenty—staring at him with unrestrained curiosity. She was a fetching little thing, he reflected, with chestnut hair neither red nor brown but rich and glowing with golden highlights. Her pert nose sported a sprinkling of tawny freckles and her full lower lip was caught between small white teeth. Deep blue eyes, wide and intelligent, sloped upward at their corners. A thrill of anticipation caught Blade by the scruff of his neck and refused to let go as Shannon fearlessly met his gaze, her eyes narrowing when she belatedly perceived what made this man so different from any others she had met.

He was an Indian!

Not only was he a member of a race feared and despised by good people everywhere for their cruelty and heathenish ways, but he wore the tattered jacket of a Union army soldier, thereby adding insult to injury. He looked ruthless, dangerous, and quite capable of violence.

“If you and your husband want to join the wagon train you have little time left in which to outfit a wagon. Clive Bailey is the captain and organizer. He’ll advise you if you need help,” Blade said, a brash smile hanging on the corner of his mouth. The young woman’s reaction when she recognized his heritage had amused him.

It was puzzling, Blade thought in a burst of insight, that impeccably turned out in his army uniform, his hair cut to a respectable length and his face pale from Eastern winters, no one suspected he was Sioux. Yet now, dressed in buckskins, his shoulder-length hair held back by a rawhide headband, his skin burnt a deep bronze, he was unmistakably identified as a half-breed “savage.”

“I—have no husband,” Shannon stuttered, momentarily stunned by Blade’s blatant sexuality.

His eyes were the dark black of night, mysterious and unrelenting, framed by thick, spiky lashes. His brows, finely drawn and faintly slanting, were velvet black. His mouth was wide and sensual, one corner tilted just enough to reveal the sardonic wit that doubtless lay behind his ruggedly handsome features. And there was no denying, Shannon admitted with brutal honesty, that the Indian was handsome. His features spoke eloquently of a bold nature, and those large, strong hands suggested a power and strength she could only guess at.

“You’re not married?” Blade repeated sharply. “Single women aren’t welcome on this wagon train unless they are traveling with family. How old are you Miss—?”